Those Stories Plus
by spark fanfic
Summary: Dana's mad as hell, Casey's 70 years old, and Dan beholds the power of cheese.


"Don't tell me to calm down," Dana warned, as she stepped out of the elevator

They're not ours. Big props to the Other Peter Krause. We love feedback.

Those Stories Plus

Violet & Cinnamon Spark

spark_fanfic@yahoo.com

"Don't tell me to calm down," Dana warned, as she stepped out of the elevator.   
  
"And a good morning to you, too," Natalie said cheerfully.   
  
Dana waved distractedly at her and paced through the office. "Don't tell me to calm down, Natalie."  
  
"I wasn't about to--"  
  
"You're about to." Dana pushed a piece of hair away from her eyes. "And I don't want to hear it."  
  
"Okay. Dana?"  
  
"What?" she snapped.   
  
"Why am I not telling you to calm down?"  
  
"Because I don't need to calm down." Dana stalked into her office with Natalie in close pursuit. "My anger is rational and justified and I'm entitled to it."  
  
Natalie pulled the door shut behind her. "What's going on?"  
  
She held up a magazine. "_Sports Illustrated_ spelled my name wrong."  
  
"The rat bastards."  
  
"Don't make fun of this!" Dana slumped into her chair and spread the article out on her desk. "This isn't trivial. It's demeaning. This article is supposed to be about women in sports broadcasting, but the interviewer spent most of his time trying to look down Hannah Storm's shirt. And they spelled my name wrong."   
  
Natalie circled the desk and looked over her shoulder. "Two T's _and_ two K's, huh?"  
  
"I want their heads on a platter."  
  
Natalie looked at her, concerned. "Dana?"  
  
"Don't tell me to calm down, Natalie!"  
  
"Okay." She backed toward the door. "Can I ask you to simmer?"  
  
Dana arched an eyebrow. "Do you think that would be wise?"   
  
"I'll go find you a pillow to punch," she said, stepping out into the hall.   
  
"Rat bastards," Dana muttered at the magazine, and put her head in her hands. 

"It stretches," Dan said, gesturing wildly. "It's crunchy. You can eat it with your fingers. It's gooey. It's crunchy."  
  
"You said that," Will pointed out.   
  
"It bears repeating."  
  
Natalie stepped up behind them and clutched her clipboard to her chest. "What bears repeating?"  
  
Chris looked over his shoulder at her. "Stretchy, crunchy, gooey. You're up to speed."  
  
She furrowed her brow. "You're talking about a Snickers bar?"  
  
"We are talking about the magic and wonder that is the cheese thing," Dan said triumphantly.   
  
"It sounds to me like you're talking about a Snickers bar." She inclined her head toward the hall. "Walk with me, Danny."  
  
"Natalie, you're my friend, aren't you?"  
  
She nodded at him. "Sure."  
  
"You care about me?"  
  
"Of course I do."  
  
"You want to see me happy?"  
  
"I want to see you happy."  
  
He stopped and placed a hand on her arm. "I have never been happier than I am at this moment. It stretches. It's crunchy. It's gooey. It's a mouthwatering blend of bread, onions, and cheese, and if I'm not mistaken, a pinch of love."  
  
Natalie began walking again. "Can I borrow sixty cents?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I want a Snickers bar."  
  
Dan stopped again and yelled after her as she walked away. "I'm just trying to spread the love, Natalie. I'm paying it forward."  
  
She turned around in the hall. "I'll be taking the money out of your desk."  
  
"I know you will."

"Explain it again," Casey said, bending next to Jeremy and peering at the computer screen. 

Jeremy leaned back in the chair and sighed. "We've gone over this twice."  
  
"And I'm finally close to getting it."

"Is he a smart one?" Jeremy asked Natalie as she bounced into the office. "Is this one a quick learner?"

"What's the problem now?" Natalie asked, heading for Dan's desk. 

"Casey's having problems with the concept of a search engine," Jeremy explained. 

"It's not that I don't get how it works. I just don't understand why we don't use the one that pops up when we turn on the thing."

"When you open the browser." Jeremy spoke very slowly. "The start page that comes up only searches the CSC intranet. You want to search the whole internet, so we're going to pull up Google."

"He could be speaking Hungarian," Casey told Natalie. "All I want is to be able to do a little research."  
  
"All he wants to do is put in his own name and see how famous he is."  
  
"That's research," Casey said defensively. "There could be crazy stalker women out there putting my head on David Hasselhoff's naked body."  
  
"Okay." Jeremy covered his eyes with one hand. "That's one mental image that's going to scar me for life."

"That wouldn't work," Natalie said, rummaging through Dan's top drawer. 

"Why not?"  
  
"Your head's too square."

Casey shrugged. "I'm just saying, if there's pornographic material out there on me, I should at least be making money off it, right?"

"Look, can we get this over with?" Jeremy put in. "I'm on the site."

"Google," Casey said. "A powerful search engine."

"Right."  
  
"And not, you know, something a two-year-old chews on."

"Sit down and shut up, would you?" Jeremy shook his head. "All this information at our fingertips, and we're using it to stroke your ego."

Natalie leaned over Jeremy's shoulder. "Searching for Casey McCall. It sounds like an after-school special."  
  
"Right." Jeremy's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Here we go."

* * *

"There," Dana said, jabbing the page with her fingertip. "Right there. This is obscene."

"It sucks," Kim agreed, leaning on the corner of Dana's desk. 

"I mean, I know they consider our show the redheaded stepchild of sports TV, but that's no excuse--"

"Why is it always the redheaded stepchild?" Kim interrupted. "Why can't we be the stunningly gorgeous and misunderstood brunette stepchild?"

"I'm going to call them," Dana said firmly. 

"That might not be such a good idea."  
  
"How is that not a good idea?"  
  
"Don't take this the wrong way," Kim warned. "If you call them, you'll get overheated."

"Overheated?" Dana repeated in disbelief. "What am I, a 1983 Ford?"  
  
"You overheat."

"I do not overheat."

"When someone's done something that you construe as insulting--"  
  
"I'm not construing this as anything; it is insulting!"  
  
"See?" Kim said pointedly. "You're doing it right now."

"I'm not overheated!" Dana held a hand to her forehead in an exaggerated gesture. "Feel me. I'm my normal temperature."

"Well, this conversation doesn't sound as if it has anything to do with sports," Isaac said from the doorway. 

"Isaac." Dana straightened up in her chair. "We're going to be a little short in the second half, unless something amazing happens in the Cubs game."  
  
"Is something amazing happening in the Cubs game?" Kim asked. 

Isaac looked at her with amusement. "Isn't it unlucky that we don't work in an office full of televisions and computers and radios, all working together to keep us up-to-the-minute on sporting events around the world?"

"Got it." She hopped to her feet and darted out of the room. 

"_Sports Illustrated_," Dana said. 

"Ah, yes." Isaac stepped into the office. "The profile of women in sports broadcasting."  
  
"They spelled my name wrong. Very wrong."  
  
"The unimaginable nerve of those people."

"You're not taking this seriously either!" Dana cried, standing up. 

"Write them a letter," Isaac suggested. "They'll print a correction."  
  
"Sure, in a tiny little box next to a letter from some crazed Mariners fan making fun of Ken Griffey, Jr." 

"What do you want, an apology in skywriting?"  
  
"I'm thinking a billboard would be nice," she said. "Maybe some neon."  
  
"Write them a letter," Isaac said again. 

"I guess." She reached for a pen. "Did you need something?"  
  
"I was just passing by."

"They never spell your name with two T's and two K's," Dana complained. 

Isaac grinned as he moved back out into the hall. "It would be quite an achievement if they did."

* * *

Dan leaned against the couch and flipped a page of his magazine. "What are you doing tonight?"

Casey shrugged. "I don't know. I thought maybe I'd get some takeout and--"

"I wasn't talking to you," Dan interrupted. "I was talking to Jeremy."

Casey looked at him. "Why weren't you talking to me?"

"I already know what you're doing tonight. I don't know what Jeremy's doing tonight."

"Oh." Casey turned back to the computer. 

"So, Jeremy, are you going to answer me or not?"

Jeremy furrowed his brow. "What was the question?"

"What are you doing tonight?"

"It's league night," he replied. 

Dan flipped another page. "League night?"

"Yeah." Jeremy cleared his throat. "I'm in a bowling league."

Casey and Dan began to laugh. "You're in a bowling league?"

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Yes, I am. I am in a bowling league. I own bowling shoes and I own a bowling ball, and I am in a bowling league."

Dan looked at Casey. "How did we not know this before?"

"What kind of bowling league meets at midnight on a Tuesday?"

Jeremy sighed. "You know, I don't make fun of what you choose to do when you're out of the office."

Casey grinned. "You would if we were in a bowling league."

"Hey," Dan sat up straight. "They spelled Dana's name wrong."

"Who?" Jeremy asked. 

"_Sports Illustrated_. They spelled Dana's name wrong."

"Hide the knives," Casey muttered, and peered at the computer screen. "Oh, my God."

"Yeah, she's not going to be happy about that."

Casey continued to stare at the screen. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Jeremy asked. 

"This!" Casey gestured towards the computer. Jeremy and Dan stood behind him and gazed over his shoulder. "That's not me."

"No," Dan said. "No, it's not."

"That's not me."

"That looks like you when you're seventy."

Casey shook his head. "I don't play golf. This thing is for Casey McCall Golf, but this isn't me. I don't play golf."

Jeremy shrugged. "Maybe you do, when you're seventy."

"Is this legal?" Casey asked. "I mean, can he use my name like this?"

"Casey, he's an old man. He's not stealing your identity. I'm sure that Casey McCall is a common name."

"A common name?" Casey repeated. "How many Casey McCalls do you know?"

"Two, now." Dan crossed his arms. "And how do we know that you didn't steal his identity?"

Casey's shoulders slumped. "I don't play golf."

"But you will," Jeremy said. He reached for the mouse and scrolled down the computer screen. "And you were making fun of me for bowling? You're hawking golf videos on the internet in another few decades."

"You should start playing now," Dan advised. "Otherwise you won't get up to professional caliber in time."

"You also give lessons," Jeremy observed. "I guess you have to, being seventy years old and all. You're on a fixed income."

Casey stood up. "I put in my name, and it gave me--"  
  
"Your future," Dan finished for him. 

"And Google ranks sites by popularity," Jeremy said. "So this Casey McCall is more famous on the net than you are."  


"Yeah. Thanks. That helps a whole lot, Bowler Boy."

Dan followed him. "You know what you need?"  
  
"A publicist with the connections and murderous instincts of John Gotti?"  


"He needs to learn to help people find the woods and irons they need to improve their distance and accuracy," Jeremy said, reading from the website. 

"You need the cheese thing!" Dan said triumphantly. 

"Or a computer program to analyze videos of people's golf swings."

Casey groaned and paced out of the office. "If I had John Gotti for a publicist, would he get rid of you two?"

"You need to experience the cheese thing," Dan persisted. "It heals all wounds. I'm prepared to say it's the alpha and the omega of dairy-based foodstuffs."

"You're still on that?" Natalie asked as they passed her. 

"Sooner or later you'll thank me."

  
She laughed. "What's going on?"

"We found a Casey McCall website."

"That's cool!" Natalie smacked Casey lightly on the arm. "You're ready for your closeup."

"It was the website of an elderly golf teacher," Dan finished. 

"So it's not our Casey?"

Dan's eyes twinkled. "It's our Casey when he's seventy."  


Natalie laughed. "I can see it now."

"Enjoying yourselves?" Casey asked glumly. "You're just going to tell everyone on earth about this, huh?"  
  
"Tell them, nothing." Jeremy called. "I'm about to order a video."

* * *

"... And we're moving Hergenrader."

"To where?" Casey asked. 

"We're making him the lead." Dana shuffled her papers. "We're moving Kipperidge to the tens, we're filling with the human interest piece on Dave Pendrys and the Stanley Cup, and we're making Hergenrader the lead."

Dan scribbled on his notepad. "Why?" 

"The kid's amazing," Jeremy spoke up. "He's the best thing to come out of Nebraska since... since... actually, he's the best thing to come out of Nebraska, ever. He's thirteen and two, he's got a hundred and fifty two strikeouts, his ERA's under two, and you know what else?"

Natalie looked up. "He killed himself a bear when he was only three?"

"He's playing with a pulled shoulder!" 

Dan nodded thoughtfully. "That's pretty amazing."

"It's damn amazing."

Dana shuffled her papers again. "Spell 'Hergenrader' for me, would you, Jeremy?"

He regarded her strangely. "Hergenrader. H-E-R-G-E-N-R-A-D-E-R."

"He was the National Spelling Bee champ when he was nine, did you know that?" Natalie smiled proudly. 

Dan hid a smile. "I did not know that. I did, however, know that he's in a bowling league."

"You're in a bowling league?" Kim asked. 

"The point," Dana said loudly. "Is that Hergenrader is a tricky name to spell, and yet, Jeremy spelled it correctly on his first try. Spell 'Whitaker' for me, would you, Will?"

"Dana, I'm not going to spell your name."

"Will, please spell my name."

"I am _not_ going to spell your name."

"Spell it!"

Will sighed. "Whitaker. W-H-I-T-A-K-E-R."

Dana nodded. "See? See? And yet, if you're Frank Deford, you spell it with a few extra letters."

"How about a Q?" Casey asked. "Did he spell it with a Q?"

"He spelled it with two T's and two K's," Natalie said helpfully. 

"You know, Dana, I saw that article."

"Did you, Dan?"

He looked at her. "I did. I saw it, and I liked it."

"You're just saying that."

"Yes."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Yes."

Dana sighed. "It was a terrible article."

Dan nodded in agreement. "It was pretty bad, Dana."

"It was horrific."

"Do you know what else is horrific?" Casey asked suddenly. 

Jeremy raised a hand. "I know what's really funny."

"I did a web search for my name today."

"I think that falls under pathetic rather than horrific."

Natalie looked at Kim. "See, I'd put it under egotistical."

"I did a web search for my name, and it turns out, there's some geriatric golf pro in California who is also named Casey McCall. And you know what? He's more popular than I am."

"To be fair," Dan interjected, "_Golf Magazine_ voted Casey McCall one of the top 100 golf teachers in America."

"Do you understand what I'm saying? People do a web search with my name, and they find this crazy old plaid-wearing geezer!"

"You wear plaid."

"I do not wear plaid."

"From time to time, I've seen you in plaid."

"Danny, I have never worn plaid."

"People!" Dana shouted. "We're straying. We're straying from the point."

"And you know what the point is?" Dan asked. 

"Tell us, Dan."

He took a deep breath. "The point, my dear friends, is that I am in love."

Dana smiled. "Really?"

Will shook his head. "Here we go."

Dan held his fingers three inches apart. "She's about this tall with a golden-brown crust. Every bite is like a little party for my taste buds, and the way she melts in my mouth lets me know that she loves me, too."

Dana looked at Natalie. "What in the hell is he talking about?"

"You don't want to know."

"Sounds good to me." She stood. "See you back here at seven. That is, if you won't be too busy watching 'Diagnosis Murder'."

Casey slid back his chair. "I hate you all."

* * *

"Do you see this?" 

"I have seen it," Casey said. "You showed me twice in the elevator."

  
Dan gazed fondly at the Styrofoam container in his hands. "I know, but I don't think you're showing the proper reverence."  
  
"I don't think you should be walking around unmedicated." 

Dan sighed and sat down on the edge of someone's desk. "He doesn't understand us," he said to the room at large. "It must be a generation gap thing."  
  
Casey rolled his eyes and strolled on toward their office. "All I'm saying is there are food fetishes and there are -- what's this?"

"What's what?" Dan got up and went after him. 

"This is a jar of Oil of Olay, is what it is."  
  
"So why'd you ask me?"  
  
"Because I trust you to be an authority in all things involving women's cosmetics," Casey said. "I'm asking, who came in here and put -- Natalie!"

Dan snickered as he walked to the couch and set his take-out box on the coffee table. "She has no shame."  
  
Natalie appeared in the doorway. "Hey, Dan. Hey, Gramps."  
  
"No shame and no subtlety," Dan said. "Natalie, come look at this."  
  
"No, don't go look at that," Casey said, brandishing the jar of skin cream. "You put this on my desk?"  
  
She struggled not to laugh. "Yes."

"Implying what?"

She shrugged. "Well, you're going to spend your declining years out in the sun on the fairway. You have to start taking care of your skin now."

"That's very funny," Casey said grimly. 

"I thought so. Give me my Oil of Olay."  
  
"Oh, no." Casey set it on the bookshelf. "I keep it now."

"Hey," Natalie protested. "That stuff is expensive."  
  
"You should've factored that in before you made your funny, funny joke."

"Give it back or I'll have to dock the cost from your Social Security check," she teased. 

"Yeah? Well, you--" Casey struggled to think of a retort. "You walk funny!"

"Come look at this," Dan said to Natalie. "This will change your life."

Natalie started to approach Dan. In the middle of the room, she turned and lunged suddenly, seizing the jar of Oil of Olay and running out of the room with it. "Hey!" Casey yelped, and started to chase her. 

"You'll break your hip," she yelled back, laughing, and disappeared into the hallway. 

"Darn kids," Casey muttered under his breath, returning to the office. "We should be writing; what are you doing?"  
  
"Contemplating," Dan said. He was hunched over the coffee table, staring at the contents of the takeout box. "I bet it's even good cold, Case."

"Oh, give me that." He grabbed the box and gave it a Frisbee-toss that landed it in the wastebasket. 

"That was wrong." Dan affected a shocked expression. "So very, very wrong. And you owe me six dollars."  
  
"That thing is six dollars?"  
  
"Worth every penny."

"I can't give you six dollars," Casey said smugly. "I'm on a fixed income."

Dan pressed a hand to his brow, shaking his head tragically. "Not the proper reverence at all."

* * *

"... So I got it back," Natalie said breathlessly, handing the jar of Oil of Olay across the desk to Dana. 

"Close call," Dana said. "That's the last time I lend you skin care products for nefarious purposes."

"Nefarious purposes? It was a good cause. Hey, your mood seems to have improved." A worried look crossed her face. "Of course, that could just be the eye of the storm."  
  
Dana picked the magazine up, rolled it into a tube, and drummed it against her desk. "Let's walk."

"So it's just the eye of the storm," Natalie said, as they started down the corridor. 

"I've been letting this rankle," Dana told her, tapping the magazine ominously against her hip. "I've been sitting around all day tearing myself up inside."

"And now you've gotten over it and risen above it?" she asked hopefully. 

They got into the elevator. Dana pressed the button forcefully. "No, now I've decided to be productive with my anger."  
  
"You didn't send any death threats to Frank Deford, did you?"  
  
"It's not as if my name is, like, Czechoslovakia," Dana grumbled. "How do you spell 'Whitaker' wrong without malicious intent?"  


"Dana--"  
  
"It's gross negligence on their part, and they shouldn't get away with it. You know what I am?"  
  
"You're as mad as hell and you're not going to take it anymore," Natalie guessed. 

"... Yes. You know what else?"

  
"I kind of stole your thunder there."

"A little bit, yes." Dana strode out of the elevator. 

"Well, it's too late, isn't it?" Natalie hurried to keep up with her. "You can ask them to run a correction, but you can't do anything about the original print run. They made a mistake. I know it's bothering you, but there's really no point in overheating yourself about it."  
  
"I am not overheating!"

"You're heading up a hill with a blown radiator."

"I am _not_ overheated," Dana insisted, as they approached Isaac's office. "I don't overheat! Do you need to feel my forehead?"

"I really don't."

"Feel it. It's normal."  
  
"Is it my stroke, or did we already do this?" Isaac asked. 

Dana jumped slightly. "What?"  
  
"Settle down. You burst into my office; you don't get to look surprised. I do." Isaac widened his eyes. "What a surprise. What can I do for you?"  
  
"I don't know." Dana ran a hand through her hair. "What did we need, Natalie?"  
  
Natalie looked bewildered. "I was following you."

"I was following you!"  
  
"No, you weren't."  
  
"I guess I wasn't." She looked at Isaac thoughtfully. "I was in a bad mood."  
  
He raised his eyebrows. "Once again, I get to be surprised."

"She was in a tizzy," Natalie put in. 

"I was in a bad mood about something work-related. I guess I made a beeline for your office."

"Flattered as I am," Isaac said, "eleven o'clock is fast approaching."

"Yeah." Dana still looked confused, but she turned to leave. "Yeah. Hey, the Cubs won."

"So I hear."  
  
"It was one to nothing," Natalie said. "Not exactly brimming over with highlights."

"Sometimes a victory is amazing enough in itself. Go away from me now; you bother me." Isaac smiled at them, and they left. 

* * *

Casey leaned against Dana's door and softly rapped his knuckles against it. "Are you busy?"

She looked up from her notes. "Busy? Me?"

"I brought you a present."

"If it's that cheese thing of Danny's--"

"It's a Snickers bar." He placed it on her desk. "I thought you might, you know, want to eat something."

"Thanks, Casey."

"I mean it." He sat. "You haven't eaten today."

"How do you know that I haven't eaten today?"

"Have you eaten today?"

She looked down. "No."

"Well, there you go." He leaned back and crossed his legs, letting his hands rest on his ankle. "They misspelled your name."

"They did."

"They spelled it completely wrong."

"They did."

Casey looked at her. "Talk to me, Dana."

She stood and began walking around her office. "They misspelled my name, Casey. The article is about women. Women in sports broadcasting. We're talking powerful women here. Did Dan show you the magazine? Did you see the picture?"

"He showed me. I saw."

"Hannah Storm. Lesley Visser. Mary Carillo. Robin Roberts. Jane Chastain, Casey. And me."

Casey got to his feet. "Wait a minute."

"I'm not finished."

"Yes, you are. You are finished because I am finished listening to you feel sorry for yourself. You are damn good at what you do, Dana. You have a whole gaggle of people out there who will tell you the same thing. And you know it. You know you're good. You know how good you are."

She sighed. "Casey... ."

"Frank Deford is an idiot, and he wrote a crappy article." Casey leaned against the wall. "Who else was there?"

She sighed again. "Casey... ."

"Who else was there, Dana?"

"Hannah Storm."

"And?"

"Lesley Visser."

"And?"

"Mary Carillo." 

"Who else?"

Dana bit back a smile. "Robin Roberts."

"Who else?"

"Jane Chastain."

"I know that's not all."

"Casey... ."

"Who else was there?"

"I was there."

Casey walked towards her. "Who was there?"

"Dana."

"Dana who?"

"Dana Whitaker."

He grinned and nodded. "Dana Whitaker was there, in pretty damn good company. Be proud of that, woman."

She considered this and sat back behind her desk. "Yeah," she said softly, and reached for the Snickers. 

"I'm going to go get ready for the show."

"Okay." 

"You eat that," he commanded. 

"Yes, sir." She fingered the wrapper. "A gaggle?"

Casey smiled and stepped into the hall. "Eat."

* * *

"Let me do this thing for you, Jeremy. Let me do this thing."

"I have to go," Jeremy said, taking a backward step. 

Dan adjusted his microphone. "Have I ever lied to you?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Have I ever done you wrong?"

"I really have to go."

  
"I have never given you any reason to doubt me," Dan said.   
  
Jeremy scoffed. "Is there a reason why you're talking like my girlfriend?"  
  
"No, but now I know who wears the pants in your relationship. Come with me after the show. We'll purchase a cheese thing. We may purchase two. Bring Natalie. Bring everyone."

Casey dropped into his seat. "We're never going to hear the end of it until he gets what he wants."

"I am hungry," Jeremy admitted. "I could go for something with cheese."

"You will both thank me later." Jeremy hurried out of the studio, and Dan added, "Tell everyone they're invited."  
  
"We can hear you," Natalie's voice said into his earpiece. 

Dan flung his arms wide. "You're invited!"

"Ninety seconds to VTR," Dave said, as Jeremy walked into the control room. 

Dana slipped into her chair and spoke into the microphone. "Make sure the sound's up loud enough for Casey to hear."  


"I heard that," Casey said in the studio. 

"Is it the monitors, or is there a touch of gray in Casey's hair?" Natalie asked innocently.   
  
"You're going to Hell, whippersnapper," Casey replied, making a face at the monitor. 

"Roll VTR," Dave said. "60 seconds live."

"Preview 2, 2A and 3," Chris chimed in. 

"Stand by F/X 3."

"Show me Nebraska and get me Pat in Dallas," Dana instructed, and smiled to herself. "We're going to be doing this from the geriatric ward one day."

"Ten seconds live."

"Good show, everybody," Dana said, with the familiar thrill in her chest. 

Dave counted them down. "In three, two..."

And they were there. 

"Good evening from New York City; I'm Casey McCall alongside Dan Rydell. Those stories plus we'll take you to Nebraska to meet college baseball's new king of the wild frontier."

"And we've got what's hot from the NHL, NBA, MLB, and one more wonderful three-letter organization, the PGA." Dan beamed warmly, looking straight ahead at the camera. "You're watching Sports Night on CSC."


End file.
